The Wanderer
by xxVasilyaxx
Summary: The Fighters are the elite of humanity. Once discharged they are labeled as Wanderers. One such Wanderer has locked his heart and emotions away, never to feel or be hurt. But he never counted on meeting one John Watson. Rated for violence. M/M
1. Chapter 1

It was a beautiful sunny day, the breeze was perfect and the birds were singing. It was the definition of a perfect spring day. The streets were lined with laughing pedestrians, on their way to shops or to cafes to take brunch with their friends.

On one street, there was no sound of laughter, no merriment or abrupt and cheery 'hello!' called to a suddenly familiar face.

This street was filled with the sound of marching feet, small and precise. Heavy breath and grunting as drills were snapped out over a loudspeaker with a sharp whip-like voice.

On that street, The Fighters were being trained.

It was something of a privilege to be called on to be trained as one of The Fighters, it showed that you had strength beyond that of a normal human, that you had above average cunning, that you were more than what others could be.

On this day, it was young children being trained, and though it made some a few strangers flinch at the young minds being drilled so strictly, to the practiced eye you could see the Sargent keeping a cool and collected eye for the ones that needed a break or water. Her dark hair was twisted into a firm bun, but under the military gaze was a look of fondness for her pupils.

Nothing would happen to these young souls.

Out of nowhere a streak of blue came rushing onto the street, pulling parallel to where the young boys and girls were being trained and coming to a sudden halt. Once the screech of rubber and smoke died down, a car door opened and a tall and imposing looking brunette stepped out.

Her grin spoke of mischief and her brown curls bobbed freely in the wind. She was nothing like the young Fighters had ever seen. Grin still in place she drifted over to where their instructor stood, scowling at her. The dark look did nothing to stop her from draping her arm over slim shoulders and pressing their heads together.

Looking out over the young and impressionable Fighters, she smirked, knowing that the Sargent could see it, "So," she purred, "These are the new bloods?"

There was a look of fondness under the dark glower that the children could easily spot, though to anyone else it looked as though the Sargent was ready to kill the newcomer. "I would like you to refrain from calling my children that, and get your arm off me, Riven."

The tall woman didn't move but the Sargent easily ducked under her arm, shooting another glare before barking an order into her megaphone, telling the young fighters the next round of drills to preform before grabbing Riven's arm to drag her off.

There was a short bout of shouting, the strict looking Sargent chastising the taller woman, who just slumped against her car to smile winningly at the screaming woman.

After several minutes, the woman seemed to crumple, and to the children's amazement, hugged the tall woman fiercely.

Their Sargent wasn't one to ever show emotion, yet here she was nearly pouring it out in the middle of the street.

No one ever pointed it out to her, and she returned after several hushed words and the stranger got into her car and left, but not before throwing a grin over her shoulder at the astonished young Fighters.

Weeks later the incident had repeated itself many times over, and the children got used to the tall woman appearing out of nowhere. She became something of a second instructor to them, always appearing wherever they happened to be training that day.

Then something happened.

A younger Fighter, so young that it was amazing he'd been recruited stepped on an older and bulkier Fighter in the middle of the drill.

The older boy was on the younger lad in moments, and in a flurry of movement the tall curly haired instructor was on them in moments. She had the dark haired boy pinned down and held her other arm out to the elder, crouched down and looking lethal.

"Go ahead," she hissed and the older boy looked smug before snapping out his leg with a deadly force, she easily countered it and flipped him down to the ground, her blue eyes narrowing at him, "You are supposed to _protect_ those smaller than you." She ground out, one hand easily wrapped around his neck, not hard enough to hurt, but to restrain, "You are a _Fighter_ and you will not abuse the power given to you."

Letting him go and yanking him to the ground, she pointed him towards the Sargent to receive his punishment.

Riven turned her bright blue eyes to the small child she had pinned, glancing him over to ensure no damage came to him before she could intervene. Thankfully there was only a small bruise blossoming over one high cheekbone.

"What's your name, lad?" she asked gently as she helped him sit up, still crouching down to be on eye level with him. The sounds of the drills starting back up washed over them, yet she kept him where he was.

"Sherlock," he said in a soft voice, feeling ashamed to be thought of as weak.

Her fingers caught the edge of his chin, forcing him to look up at her, and his own pale eyes were locked onto hers. "Just because someone is bigger than you does not mean they are stronger than you."

His pout slowly cleared as she kept talking, "Keep in mind that to be in this training program so young must mean you are something of a prodigy, be proud of that clever mind you have."

Smiling as she pinched his chin lightly, she let him back up and he raced over to the other students to continue the lesson of the day.

For years this continued, though none of them knew why their Sargent let the other woman help with training. They counted themselves lucky to have the curly haired woman in their presence though, she pushed them harder and faster than anyone had ever done before, honing their skills and their minds.

Sherlock was fourteen when he overheard a conversation that was obviously supposed to be private. It was a rare occasion that Riven actually accompanied them back to the barracks, but she had been particularly proud of their training that day. They had done a 'cat and mouse' as she called it, where she cleverly hid in the woods and they had to use all their skills to find her. They had actually found her within the hour and she'd been excited about that fact.

"Annabell, really, you worry too much," Hearing the familiar American accent of his second trainer, the dark haired boy pressed himself up against the building wall, not wanting to eavesdrop, but not wanting to interrupt an obviously private moment.

"Riven, you were discharged for a _reason_; you can't go on like this, pretending that you're okay." The Sargent's voice was angry, though there was a thread of worry underneath it.

There was a small chuckle and then, "Darling, cancer takes years to kill its victim."

The boy's mouth dropped open and tears filled his eyes when the words sunk in, Riven was dying. He raced from the spot he was standing, running back to his cabin where he could hide from the world and pretend that he hadn't heard what he had thought he had just heard.

The next time he saw her, he really looked at her, noticing things he hadn't seen before. There were dark circles under her eyes and her reaction time had obviously slowed. Her body, while always had been in whipcord shape, was actually losing weight.

She was dying.

The thing that Sherlock didn't understand was why it was taking so long, she might have been right about it taking years, but it had already been such a long time already, how much longer would they actually have her for?

The young man would wish he had never thought that, for just two months after pondering that question, the blue car failed to appear.

A letter found its way to the Sargent's hands, and it was obvious to her students that she was torn in two. To the untrained eye she was unaffected, cool and collected, but her young pupils didn't see the Sargent that day, they saw Annabell.

It was that summer that they graduated, Sherlock had just turned fifteen and his peers were already eighteen. It was a time that was supposed to be a celebration, but the dark haired boy could tell that he was not the only one who noticed there was someone missing; someone that should have been there.

His Sargent was obviously not doing well, she had lost too much weight and her eyes looked haunted. It was then that he knew that Riven was far more than just a comrade to her.

Sherlock returned home, his family proud of him for completing his training. He had always been smart, but he had come back something of a genius, they told him. They clapped their hands and then declared that he would follow his brother into a government position, that he wasn't to really _be _a Fighter; just that even they could not ignore when the government decrees that someone needs to go into the training program.

While he knew that his family would do their best to keep him out of the Force, it was still something of a blow to think that they would actually string him into such a boring job as his brother had.

He had gotten his own letter on a particularly sunny day, only two months after graduation. Annabell had passed away.

He could recall the gaunt look she'd had the last time he'd seen her and mentally swore to himself that he would never put himself in someone else's hands the way she'd put herself into Riven's. While the tall woman had been wonderful and amazing, she had ultimately broken the Sargent's heart.

Sherlock buried all emotion, forcing them away from him and throwing himself into the study of people, the study of everything. He honed his mind into a sharp tool to be focused, deleting information deemed unusable or irrelevant.

No matter how hard he tried, he could not delete Riven or Annabell from his mind, and part of him knew he couldn't bear to forget them.

On his eighteenth birthday, Sherlock moved from the family manor, leaving before he could get forced into a job that he had no care for.

Riven's words from when he was a child echoed in his head, _"You are supposed to _protect_ those smaller than you."_

If his family wouldn't let him go about it the normal way, then he would find a way to do it. He always had been interested in crimes.

**AN:** So, first story I'm posting, though by far not the first story I've ever written, nor the first Sherlock story I've written before. Sherlock is a little OOC in this, but that's because he's a child for it for one, and this is an AU for another. He'll be more like himself soon. I'm toying with the idea of making the next chapter John-centric, but I'm not too overly sure. Riven is actually the closest I'll ever come to a Mary-Sue… she is loosely based off me in the sense that this idea came from a dream I had where my part was her part. The parallel to the dream stops right after she scolded the child for being a bully. That and her character jumped in my head a little and set up shop, showing me that she was her own person and _not_ me, thank you very much. XD

And before I get a ton of messages that she didn't show the proper signs of cancer or that she took far too long to pass, or what have you, there's a REASON she looked so healthy and was alive so long. It will never be outright said in the story, but I will explain it in the next chapter, I want to see if anyone can tell me why she didn't show any outward signs. The hint is in this chapter.


	2. Chapter 2

John could remember that all of his young life, he wanted nothing more than to be a Fighter, to be strong enough to defend the weak. Every time the tall official man in the long black coat showed on their doorstep to test them, he just knew that it was his year. That he would be called on to protect those weaker than him.

He didn't give up on that particular dream until he was twelve years old. He knew that they didn't take any children older than eight, but he had still hoped the tall official would still be back, sweeping in telling them all how he'd made a mistake and John was to come with him for training.

Even still, he didn't give up on the dream entirely. Knowing that one way of getting what he'd wanted was cut off, the young boy steeled himself and decided to learn medicine. If he couldn't be a Fighter then he would heal them instead.

At first his parents had thought that he had just gotten over the impossible dream and moved onto something more realistic. In reality, he had, but not in the way that they wanted for him.

John Watson would see the war, not in the way that he'd originally intended, but he would get there none the less.

Fighters couldn't actually become doctors, as their training took up too much time and by the time training was complete they were ready for whatever duties lay ahead, be it on the field or on the streets. Even though they healed faster than any normal person could and rarely, if ever, got sick they still needed medical attention from time to time.

After all, no matter how fast you heal, you can't just ignore a bullet wound.

All the same, very few civilians made the training to become a doctor to the Fighters. It seemed to take a special sort of person to work with fast and steady fingers with the rapidly healing flesh.

John studied medical texts like a thirsty man in a desert would race after water. The protest of his parents died when they saw how absorbed the young man was becoming in his studies. The study of medicine was slowly replacing John's burning passion to be a Fighter.

Why fight and kill when you could _heal_ people instead?

It was if he had found his calling, and he was only fourteen.

As expected, John kept his studies going up until the day he applied for his medical license. It was no surprise to anyone that he blew that particular test out of the water.

It was also expected when John applied to be shipped overseas to be a Fighter's Doctor. He was eighteen and there was little their parents could do to stop him.

As expected, the young man was accepted and shipped out. Harry began drinking, his parents fought. It seemed that life fell apart when John left.

Even though he wasn't to fight, he still spent the better part of a year in Basic Training, learning combat and drills. It wasn't as extensive as the training that the Fighter's went through, but John enjoyed it all the same. The following year was spent in Combat Medical training, something he excelled even more than Basic.

At the end of those two years he was declared ready for war.

He soon discovered that war was not all it was cracked up to be, that the scent of blood and death never quite got out of your nose. No matter how many lives you saved, you still remembered the _one_ that you couldn't.

John had nightmares for weeks about one particularly young fighter that he had been operating on, his fingers faster than the healing skin. He had been shot, and had been lucky that the bullet had missed his heart. It was supposed to be routine, easy.

They had missed the shrapnel that had embedded itself in the young man's skin, healing over almost as soon as it had pierced. The healing skin had pushed the metal debris deeper until it had worked into his blood stream, flowing straight to his heart and killing him even faster than John's fingers could move.

It would take years for the dying man's screams to leave John's mind.

They had told him that no one had known about the deadly, tiny, metal and that it wasn't his fault. He couldn't listen to that, he had made a mistake, he was sure of it. He worked twice as hard to save every life that came to his table.

Dr. Watson was soon the go to man, the one that every Fighter wanted working on them when they got an injury substantial enough to warrant a doctor needed.

It was a heady feeling for him, to be needed and wanted like that by those he had admired as a young child. It made him sign up over and over again, re-enlisting every time it came up.

And then the incident happened.

It wasn't often that the doctors got sent out on the field with the Fighters, but this was different, John had proved he could hold his own in a battle. Not as well as a Fighter, but better than the average citizen.

The explosion had caught them all off guard and John had been bent over a screaming Fighter, who was clutching the tattered remains of his leg when he heard the gunshot that changed his life.

He had been in the hide, he shouldn't have been visible.

Yet he had been, and the bullet tore through him with a force that left him seeing black. He had struggled in vain to stay awake, directing a Fighter the proper way to go about seeing to his wound. Dizzy with blood loss and shock, he kept shouting directions, trying to save as many Fighters surrounding them as possible until he succumbed to unconsciousness.

At first he had fought to stay on as a Fighter's Doctor, trying to decline the medals of honor and valor, something a regular person rarely ever got.

It was too late; they'd already seen the tremor in his hand.

Dr. Watson was doomed to a regular existence.

Returning to London hadn't been as bad as he'd thought it would be, though it was just as expensive as he'd assumed. It was shortly apparent that he would never be able to stay on with just the army pension he had.

He had tried to get a job at several different surgeries, but had been declined when they saw his tremor and limp.

His therapist wasn't helping.

His sister wasn't an option.

He had been desperate when he'd met Sherlock Holmes, and at first that was why he'd found himself on the steps of 221 B Baker Street.

And then his life had exploded into color and he was chasing the madmen around the streets of London, limp forgotten, tremor buried so deeply that he wondered if it would actually come back.

He found that he owed it all to the unfeeling genius that he followed around, solving crimes with and running all over hell and back. He didn't need the war anymore, he'd found his own personal one with the consulting detective and it was fine by him.

When he thought about it, he knew that it wasn't right that such a lifestyle would feel so normal to him, and in a subconscious attempt to make him feel better he would berate the other man about what _normal_ people did or felt.

The tall man would just smirk and take it stride, sometimes asking what _normal_ people did, and sometimes just stalking silently away.

The change in pace came one day when Sherlock had actually gotten injured while chasing after a criminal. A lead pipe introduced itself to his knee, and he had collapsed like a sack of potatoes, crying out sharply only once.

John was immediately at his side and examining the knee against Sherlock's protests. "It's only a sprain," he said in relief, massaging the swollen skin, "It'll take about two to three weeks to heal-" he was cut off in distraction as he felt the swelling slowly falling on it's own.

He knew what this meant, he'd seen it in the war. In a day, maybe two, the sprain would be completely gone. In half an hour the bruise that the pipe had left wouldn't even be showing any longer.

Sherlock was carefully not looking at him as he stood and tested his leg, stepping awkwardly for a moment before cursing, "We lost him, John."

"Bloody well forget that, you're a damn Fighter!" The doctor stood and glared at the taller man, there was nothing wrong with him, why wasn't he in the service or policing the streets?

"No John," Sherlock said calmly, staring down at his angry eyes with calm ones, "I'm a Wanderer."

The blond felt taken aback by that, usually Fighter's only got delegated to Wanderer when their health was actually on the decline or they had managed to live to a ripe old age. Considering how rare both occurrences were, there were not very many Wanderers in existence.

"How?" he demanded, eyes harsh.

Pale eyes snapped up and down the ex-army doctor and then narrowed, "You're disappointed."

"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock. Brilliant!" the words were sharp and snapped, John's arms spreading wide before leaving with a huff. "You know what? Just forget it," It wasn't like he would be getting any answers from the tall man anyway.

He missed the flash of hurt in the tall man's eyes as he stomped off. He couldn't believe that someone would just throw away a gift like that. John would give his arm to have been born like that, and snorted slightly at the thought. In a way, he already did give up his arm in the attempt to live like that. He absently made his way to the pub, needing to cool down before heading back to their flat.

Really, he wouldn't have reacted that badly if it hadn't been for the fact that he'd wanted to be a Fighter himself so damn badly that seeing Sherlock waste it was something of a blow.

Sherlock had succeeded in locking the emotions the short doctor managed to bring up in him into a box, buying them deeply and then deleting their existence from his hard drive. Emotion wouldn't help him.

He still didn't know how John could bring out anything in him when they hadn't even been flatmates for very long; perhaps a month at best.

Even after that he could still feel the frustration at not knowing exactly what it was that had set the shorter man off and the slight blood lust from the chase that came with being a Fighter.

Stalking off into the night, his coat swirling around him, the detective sought out the only thing that would help him right now.

He needed a fight.

**AN:** Hmn. I would be disappointed at the lack of response, but I'd say a large dose of story alerting, favorite, and even a favorite author sitting in my inbox soothed my ego, thank you to all that did that. That, and it would be hypocritical of me when I don't leave any reviews. XD

Though, if anything does confuse you, please let me know and I will clear it up. It's all clear in my head but I know how sometimes despite best efforts things get confusing.

Also, just a little note or two here, yes, Fighters do NOT get sick very easily, yet last chapter Riven was struck down by cancer. She was one of the very, very few that it happened to. And Annabell willed herself to death in a very short time, yes. My reasoning on that was that I've seen people do that to themselves, and it takes a long time. A Fighter being stronger, faster, smarter could accomplish that in no time at all if they put their minds to it.

And I know, I didn't do the meeting between Sherlock and John like in the series. I glossed over it purposely, because in all honesty I can't imagine a more perfect meeting for them and I did NOT want to just write the scene word for word. That's so boring and mundane. We all know how it happened, yes? Good. This is an AU and things will be different, obviously, just... not that. XD

About the wounds – Yes, it seems a little awkward that the sprain would be down in two days while the bullet wounds had to be worked on fast before the skin could close on them. That's actually logical, when you're cut the blood begins clotting and trying to reform the skin right away. And while the bullet wounds wouldn't be healed right away, they would be closed off and clotting far faster than a normal person. So by the time you're shot have the "oh god, I've been shot," reaction AND gotten to a doctor? Yeah, doc needs to be fast.


	3. Chapter 3

Blood was flowing freely from his opponent's face and over the devilish grin that was plastered there. Not wasting his time on heckling the slightly shorter man in front of him, the dark haired man spat out blood before turning back to the stockier man with a small smirk of his own.

This fight was actually going to be a tough one, especially seeing as his ankle was still swollen.

Nodding slightly the fight continued and there was nothing more than a flurry of feet and fists as they danced around each other, always calculating, never stopping. Blood liberally covered the floor and one of his opponent's teeth was skittered off to the side.

They ignored it in favor of getting their desperate aggression out of the way.

No one really knew why Fighters were so aggressive, if it was due to something in their genetic make-up or the fact that they began training at such a young age.

Sherlock's nose was displaced with a sickening crunch as he was distracted by kicking the other man squarely in the ribs. The shorter man collapsed with a sharp outtake of breath, and the taller man stepped back for a moment, letting the other gather himself and decide if it was time to call this match off.

There weren't very many Wanderers about, seeing as Fighters didn't leave the service they were enlisted in without being forcefully removed due to health or serious injury.

The man that had wound up his opponent this time had been discharged from the police force because of a mangled foot, and if one would think that it would have made him an easier match, they would have wound up soundly beaten.

He had actually been the best match Sherlock had gone up against in months, and told him as much as he knelt down next to him, straightening his nose out with another crack, setting it in place.

While the detective wasn't an overly vain creature, he didn't really want to have a crooked nose.

The shorter man grinned up at him, ignoring the tang of his own blood in his mouth as he grasped Sherlock's hand and let himself be hauled to his feet. "Thanks, mate, you aren't bad yourself, how'd you manage to wind up a Wanderer?"

His brown eyes were curious as he sized the pale man up and down, it was obvious by his complexion that he'd never made it out to the war, yet there was nothing disfiguring him badly enough to warrant him to be discharged from the police.

"That is a long story," Sherlock said nasally through his cracked nose, watching as the other Wanderer shifted on his bad foot, getting his balance back.

It was a shame he'd been discharged, Sherlock decided, in the heat of the battle he forgot all about the pain and naturally compensated for the difference of length in his legs.

Still, one didn't argue with the government.

Something he'd learned well.

Leaving the squat building that had been taken over for the very purpose the two Wanderers had been using it for, Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose, wincing slightly at the sting.

It had been a pretty violent bout and Sherlock was glad for it, the aggression that usually flew through him was now curled almost contentedly in his chest, like a relaxing and purring tiger. With a sigh, he knew that he now had to return to the flat, bloodied and having to explain himself to his flatmate.

Only a month and John was stirring things inside of him that he'd never thought he'd feel again. Once again those _feelings_ got locked into a box and buried as he slowly climbed the steps to his home and opened the door, casting a pale eye around the surrounding area.

Strange, there was no sign that the ex-army doctor had come back to the flat and he raised an eyebrow in surprise. That meant... he pulled his phone out to send a text to the blond man, telling himself he wasn't worried in the slightest.

_Don't drink too much – SH_

Setting his phone on the arm of his chair, he pulled off his coat, laying it almost reverently against the back of the chair before making his way to the bathroom; might as well clean up before the good doctor came back and began questioning him.

He was halfway through his task, the sink a sluggish pink color from the mixed blood and water when he heard the chime of his phone.

It was twenty minutes until Sherlock left the bathroom shirtless, his midsection wrapped to help soothe bruised ribs and a strip covering his nose to keep it in place as it healed.

Both bandages would be removed tomorrow, no longer necessary.

He was reaching for his phone when he heard the door open and there stood the man that had been irritatingly occupying his thoughts far more than he should be. His glare died as he stared at the detective's bare chest and the alcohol could be smelt on him.

It was all the dark haired man could do not to heave an annoyed sigh. Hadn't he killed that train of thought with the whole 'married to work' bit?

"John," he acknowledged the other man shortly, turning from him and moving back towards his bedroom to fetch a clean and bloodless shirt.

There was a huffy sigh behind him and he heard the shorter man stomp to the direction of the bathroom. Mentally he counted down from ten and a small smirk grew at the outcry that he heard when he reached one, "What the _hell_ have you been doing?"

Well, leaving blood in the sink and a bloody shirt on the bathroom floor was one way to sober up the doctor. He'd have to remember that one.

There was a thump sound outside of his bedroom door, and he schooled his face into a blank expression before turning to face his flatmate. "Problem?" he asked evenly, raising one eyebrow.

"Prob- Sher- You-" the other man was sputtering and it was with great effort that the dark haired man stopped himself from grinning at him. He must have caught the subtle twitching of his lips because the next thing Sherlock knew, his bloody shirt was being pitched at his face.

John had excellent aim.

"What the hell did you _do_?" he demanded, and Sherlock mentally sighed at the fact John had obviously gotten his voice back. "The bathroom is a bloody mess!" there was a long pause. "Literally!"

At this Sherlock couldn't help but smirk, "That is an excellent observation, John," he said calmly.

The shorter man's look became even darker and didn't falter in the face of Sherlock's grin still in place.

"What happened."

The detective heaved a sigh, knowing that being elusive wouldn't help him on this one. Honestly, for all of John's good points, he had a terrible habit of being _concerned_.

"I got into a fight," he shrugged as if it was the only explanation needed.

In that moment, he knew if John had anything else in his hands it would have been chucked at his head as well, and he didn't miss the little eye movements that meant he was actually searching out something to pick up just for that purpose. "That part is obvious."

"Then why ask?"

Definitely looking for something to throw.

"_Why_ did you get into a fight, Sherlock?"

"It doesn't _matter_," he snapped, finally facing the blond man as he jammed his arms into a new shirt, carelessly buttoning it up as he stalked past him and towards the living room where he fully intended to throw himself onto the couch.

"Of course it matters, you bloody idiot, you're a damn Fighter, you could just about kill anyone you got into a fight with!"

"Well that doesn't matter either!" he snapped back, "It was another Wanderer!" he rolled over and faced away from his flatmate, trying to ignore him.

"Right, so you went stalking the streets looking for another Wanderer to fight just because you bloody well felt like it," John mocked and Sherlock decided that he'd finally had enough.

Snapping, he stood from the couch and hovered over the shorter man, his eyes sparking in anger, "It's because I get _aggressive,_ alright?" he intoned, his words snappish before storming away and towards his room and slamming the door behind him.

John could have hit himself, he'd heard about that, that Fighters, and by default Wanderers, were aggressive and needed to occasionally let it out. Usually the Fighters serving overseas had it easier, being that they were actively fighting. Fighters on the police force had it less easy, though they still had their fair share of violence. Wanderers had it the hardest of all, and suddenly John understood.

There had to be something set up to let them meet up and come to blows to get it out of their system. Suddenly John felt like an intrusive ass and sat on the couch, sighing in guilt and wondering how to make it better. He still didn't know why Sherlock wasn't doing what was his duty, but that question was on the back burner as he picked up his phone.

The chime went off and for a moment Sherlock wanted to ignore his phone where he'd carelessly threw it on his bed, but with a sigh decided not to.

Two missed messages were waiting for him; the first one of _Sod off_ made him smile lightly until he reached the next one.

_It doesn't matter. Dinner?_

For a long moment he just stared at the words, wondering if he should actively give the ex-army doctor a reason to spiral further down into what was obviously an attraction for him. Still, they worked well together until his little secret had been discovered, and until now the blond hadn't really expected anything from him.

His long fingers were dancing out his answer as he shoved away the part of himself telling him that he really didn't mind if John was attracted. That he liked it better that way.

_Starved. - SH_

**AN: **Oh, what these boys do to me. I just love having them have a row though, it was very nice to write an angry John and having Sherlock snap. He does get so snappish. I love it. I'm amazing myself with how fast these chapters are kicking out... I'm not usually such a fast writer, but something about these two just... I don't know, works in my brain. To be honest, I have no clue where this is really going... . have I mentioned that?

Oh, and a note to the naughty one, it's alright love, I do it all the time myself. ^_~


	4. Chapter 4

"You wanted to be a fighter," A dark and melodic voice sounded over John's shoulder and he jumped, nearly causing the kettle to crash back down onto the burner. Counting to ten to calm himself, John turned to face his flat mate.

He should have just kept facing the other direction, Sherlock was hovering dangerously close, his nose just about bumping into John's.

This was doing nothing for convincing himself that he was firmly not attracted to his flat mate.

He wondered idly if being aggressive meant that the sex was rough...

The ex-army doctor had to firmly shut down that train of thought before it could run wildly away from him. It had been two months since their last fight, and he didn't want to spark another one because he couldn't keep the taller man's warning about being married to his work in mind.

"That took you a long time to get, thought you were a genius," John smirked, trying to get his balance back and there was a sharp and deadly look in Sherlock's eye.

Suddenly, he was pressed back against the counter, the taller man's hands grasping at John's hips, both pining him in place and stating his intentions.

"Wha- Sherlock," he gasped in shock, his eyes wide and glaring at the Wanderer in front of him. "What are you doing?"

The younger man's eyes were almost glazed over and lusty, but John could have sworn that Sherlock didn't get like that. "Answering your question."

"What question?" John's brow wrinkled in confusion, he couldn't remember actually asking a question.

"If the sex is rough," The words were whispered directly into John's ear, and the blond found himself trembling in the taller man's arms in sudden need. He must had made that statement out loud. Lips were pressed to the skin right behind his ear and John's eyes fell closed, moaning and tilting his head back, giving the taller man complete and total control of him.

Sherlock's lips were tripping across his chin, and suddenly they were moving from the kitchen to the living room, towards the couch, clothes disappearing at an alarming rate.

He was draped across the couch, completely naked, for a moment Sherlock just looked at him, as if looking at a precious jewel before his equally naked body was over top of him.

Letting out a moan, John was reaching up for him, pulling him down for a kiss, Sherlock's fingers slipping inside of him with ease. Their lips were just about touching, and John knew that the taller man would taste so perfect, so sweet...

With a gasp, John bolted upright on the bed, glaring about the room for what woke him up. There wasn't anything in the room, and concerned he slipped out of bed, tying a robe around himself as he silently slipped out of his room, dream and erection forgotten in the thought there there might be an intruder in the house.

Avoiding the steps that made noise was easy, it wasn't really that long that John was out of the army and old habits died hard.

He could hear voices plainly in the living room and could tell that it was Sherlock's brother visiting, though why he had happened by at three in the morning was another thing to be pondered.

"Sherlock, I know you're displeased that we kept you from the service, but that doesn't mean you have to punish Mummy so."

John's eyes were wide and he plastered himself to the wall, smothering a sound of shock with his hand. He had berated the man for not doing his duty when it had been all he'd wanted to do? He felt like the worst sort of friend, he hadn't even bothered finding out why before he'd been ripping into him.

"Please, Mycroft, I'm not punishing anyone, if I choose to remain untied that is my choice and mine alone."

Untied? Why would Sherlock use that particular turn of phrase?

"If you don't choose someone, we will choose for you, and it will be to a political advantage." There was a threatening note to Mycroft's voice and he could hear Sherlock's responding snarl.

"Fighters bond for life, Mycroft. You know that. This wouldn't be just a marriage."

"Yes, I know," the bureaucrat's voice sounded almost sad as he said it, though the next sentence was harsh, "You could have saved yourself this if you had chosen a fellow Wanderer. Now you leave me no choice at all. One month, that's all you have to decide."

"And I'm to dance to _your_ tune once again," he snarled, and John could hear Sherlock fling himself out of his chair and put distance between himself and his brother.

John had mere moments to slink back into the shadows before Mycroft was at the door to the stairs, "And Sherlock, don't even think about running."

The ex-army doctor thought himself safe and hidden, but upon leaving, the elder man turned and nodded in John's direction, smirking at him as he was glared at before making his slow way down the steps, swinging his umbrella as if he'd just won an entire cake in a contest.

Knowing that he'd been found out, John entered the living room, pulling his robe tighter about himself. Sherlock was standing at the window, glaring at the outside world in a pout. His violin dangled from one hand, and stepping forward, John gently took the instrument and set it on the couch next to them.

"I'm sorry," he said softly and Sherlock scoffed next to him.

"I have a month to figure a way out of it, I'm sure appealing to Mummy will do something."

John shook his head and Sherlock turned to look at him, confused, "No, I'm sorry I snapped at you before, about being a Wanderer, I had no idea that it wasn't your fault."

The smile that Sherlock bestowed on him was bright and John was thankful he'd chosen that route to go down. A thin hand was waved in the air, showing that it was in the past and didn't matter any longer.

For a moment, John remembered the vivid dream he'd been woken up from, and shoved the thought away before his face could heat up and give him away.

"So..." he drawled out, curious, "What does 'bond for life' mean?" he perched on the arm of the couch, and watched as his flat mate paced.

"It's the reason that I tell everyone that I'm married to my work," he said, ruffling a hand through his hair, "seeing as very few people actually know that I'm a Wanderer."

John nodded, indicating that the taller man should continue, he had trained to heal Fighters and he hadn't heard any of this business. Not that it was a huge surprise, seeing that healing someone in war didn't mean you had to know about their sexual habits.

"Well, Fighters are intensely loyal, it's practically in our very genes, our nature. It's so fiercely ingrained in our systems that it's why you'll never find a Fighter fighting against their own countries." Sherlock arched a brow, obviously remembering something in the past, "Though, you'll find the occasional Fighter or Wanderer serving or staying in an allied country."

There was a small smile, and John had to wonder just who the taller man was thinking of before he'd shaken himself off with a small frown and continued, "It even boils down to the way that we take our lovers, once a Fighter has chosen someone, they don't leave them."

Here John had to shake his head, "What do you mean? You can be a loyal person and still break up with them," John couldn't wrap his mind around settling down with the first person you fooled around with.

Sherlock laughed lightly, "Fighters don't fool around John, they are literally born to fight, one way or another, and having to fight to keep your lover is not something that we do, it gets in the way of the real fighting. Once you find someone you love, they are yours as you are theirs. It's why you rarely ever find a Fighter married or bonded to a regular person."

It clicked into place, "Because a regular person feels no such need to stay with one person permanently. So it's almost like a state of mind then."

Sherlock smiled, nodding, "That's a very good way of putting it, yes, it is a state of mind."

John chuckled, thinking that Fighters were almost animal like in their natures. Even though they had the sharpest minds of any he'd ever met, they were driven on pure instinct and intuition.

He'd even seen Sherlock once before, while on case, drop what he was doing and without prompt, pick up some random clue that had been just out of eye level, even for him.

Still, he'd keep such observations to himself, knowing that the detective would not take kindly to his instincts being likened to that of an animal.

John laughed and Sherlock arched one eyebrow at him, "Sherlock, do you really think that Mycroft is going to find someone that would be able to worm under your defenses and get you to love them without you wanting them to?" he pointed out, the tall man could be quite contrary when he wanted to be, and had run off plenty of John's dates by now simply because he'd thought they weren't good enough for the other man.

Sherlock smirked, "Yes, John, Mycroft is going to find it hard to do indeed."

"You could always find someone before the month is up, surely there's another Wanderer out there that could suit your needs," it sent a pang of regret through him to think that someone else would have the detective, but it would be better than seeing the other man tied down to an arranged marriage with someone he didn't really love but was honor bound to be loyal to.

Stopping his pacing, he looked at John sadly, "No," he said quietly, "There's no Wanderer out there for me."

The words were cryptic and heavy, and trying to shake off the mood, John stood, stretching slightly, "Well," he paused, and mentally laughed at the way Sherlock's head was tilted, "Tea?"

Sherlock smiled and nodded, thankful for having a friend like John Watson but never wanting to put his heart into someone else's hands for possible abuse.

**AN**: Yeah, I know, that one took me awhile. Life got kind of hard and heavy for a moment, but I won't burden you with that here. I had no idea that Fighters bond for life, but rereading the chapters, I suddenly went, "huh, that sure as shit makes sense, doesn't it?" and explains on another level why Sherlock is all, "Relationships? Uh, no." Buuut, also throws a nice little plot twist in for me as well. And in case any one is wondering, no, I don't think our lovely little psychopathic consulting criminal will make an appearance, simply because I don't really see him fitting into this story. Perhaps he'll step out into the light in the very end, giving something for John and Sherlock to rush off to after I wrap this up. This story is after all, a romance of how they get together, something that Moriarty, while I love him, has nothing to do with. Mycroft, however, plays a huge role, and he's doing what he's doing with a plan in mind, don't you worry one bit. :)

How many of you were peeved that John's dream was a dream? How many of you knew it was a dream? I had some hints in there. The... disappearing clothes being one of them. XD

That, also, was not planned, John just decided randomly it was time to be naked with Sherlock, so seeing as they are NOT together yet, found a way to make it so.

Next chapter will be a case chapter and will involve more violence. Yesss, let's get back to hitting things, shall we? XD


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